


Fixed Radius

by deepnest



Series: Not Long Enough at All [3]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is a Good Husband, Desert Otherworld, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post It Devours!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepnest/pseuds/deepnest
Summary: The edge of the desert was impossible to reach, or it was forbidden to acknowledge. The edge of the desert was both of these things at once, in different places that did not quite line up correctly. Carlos woke up in the desert where he lived.





	Fixed Radius

**Author's Note:**

> Unsanitary content warning!
> 
> Honestly, I don't ever know if I'll be entirely done with this series. Just because I'm never really going to be done with It Devours!, or processing the related emotions

There was a desert. The desert was circular. Maybe roughly, maybe more perfectly than it should have been. 

The edge of the desert was impossible to reach, or it was forbidden to acknowledge. The edge of the desert was both of these things at once, in different places that did not quite line up correctly. 

Carlos woke up in the desert where he lived. He did not open his eyes. He knew where he was. This knowledge was a thread unraveled, come loose from a greater tapestry of experience. It was a boundary he had not yet reached: an imperfect boundary. Sometimes, things spilled over. Sometimes, threads came loose. 

He knew that the light filtering through his eyelids was first thinned by the shelter the masked army had helped him build. Nothing could keep out that light entirely. Not even layers of bricks, or the roof he'd built from cactus pads, or the blackout curtains woven from cactus pads. 

He knew that there wasn't a lot of material in the desert. Bricks and cactus pads were about it. So he built. He built structures and equipment and a life. A life he needed to get up and live. A life which, scientifically speaking, had all the things that he believed a life should have: structures and equipment and, of course, science. 

Everything. Every _thing._

He knew that. That was all he needed. He did not try to trace this knowledge back or follow it to its end. It would lead him in a circle, and he was not ready to open his eyes yet. 

All of this in seconds. Little of it conscious. 

He knew where he was, until the mattress shifted beside him, and he realized the light was not a chill against his skin, and then he did not know where he was. He knew where he was, until he did not. 

* * *

Carlos did not open his eyes. He knew where he was. This knowledge was a tether. Nothing so physical, but just as real. He could walk in any direction, up to a point. He could walk until he saw the mountain, which was also the point where he would realize that he'd gotten distracted, or his equipment had malfunctioned, or something cold was following him, cold the way the light was, and he had to keep moving. No time to take stock of his surroundings.

He suspected he was walking in a fixed radius, but he had no way to prove it. And some mornings, when he woke up, he could still feel the ache in his legs. Some days, before the next fascinating phenomenon had revealed itself, he had nothing to do but walk. Nothing to do but try to measure distance, and fail. 

And the morning after, his legs ached. He had tried to study this, too, because they probably shouldn't have. Ache was not stasis, like the otherworld was. But on these mornings, he also waited a little longer to get out of bed, because it would hurt to walk, at first. He would be stiff. He had spent most of yesterday jogging.

Wait.

Oh, right. Yesterday. With Cecil, in Night Vale.

He realized the AC circulating the room did not smell faintly of cactus-pad filters, just the usual brick dust, and then he did not know where he was. He needed a shower before work, though. He knew that much. He felt gross, he thought, forcing the problem into scientific terms. He felt something wrong coating his skin, like he'd been covered in sand recently. The fact that he hadn't been did not help.

Carlos did not open his eyes. He knew where he was. This knowledge wavered. It stung, or stuck, or tangled. It was not any single thing, actually. It was a verb, not a noun, and he would like to stop doing this. 

And then he opened his eyes, and placed himself. One macrocosm of cells stretched over the polyester mattress cover on a bed in an apartment, all of this ordered matter that would one day fail against the universe's entropy. Here he was. Home. 

So, he knew where he was. Evidence: orange covers, space cat sheets, decrepit wallpaper that they'd kept up because something in the walls wailed when they'd tried to remove it and they didn't want to be rude to a ghost that was already suffering. An alarm clock, Carlos realized, and someone moving on the bed beside him to smack it into silence. An 80's synth-pop version of the _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance_.

Except, here was the sticky part, Carlos had known where he was before, too. Right when he'd woken up. 

That knowledge coiled sickeningly where knowledge had no place being, somewhere that wasn't his brain. Scientifically speaking, the brain was a figurative cup, it held things. Neurons and synapses which became every pattern and shape. Such as: the points, lines, planes, and angles that he recognized as his home. What he saw now.

"Ceec?" He asked. 

"Mhmm," Cecil answered, because it had been a question. A question. Something about the tone of it, the way that Carlos had shaped his name into a query, was concerned him. No, scared him. No, just concerned. He lifted his face from his pillow and rolled over. "What's up?"

"Um," said Carlos. He rolled over, too, and pressed his face into Cecil's chest. _Something_ was somewhere it had no place being. It wasn't him, but it was like eating hair in your food and then desperately trying to pull it out of your mouth, the awful, stringy sensation over teeth and tongue. Like that, but deeper. 

Of course, Cecil knew now, too. There was no reason not to be honest. Except that there were several reasons, like the fact that it would distress his husband.

Well. Maybe he could start there. "It would upset you, I think."

"Okay. Well. Now I'd definitely rather know, than be stuck wondering about it."

"Oh. Yeah. That's fair."

Cecil sighed. A deliberate, measured exhalation. "Take your time. But, just. You know. When you're ready?"

Carlos nodded, and rolled away. They got up together, began the process of getting ready for the day. Trading sleep lab coats and sleep leather for the daywear equivalents, brushing their teeth. Cecil pounded coffee, and Carlos made omelettes with extra pencil shavings, because they were at home and didn't have to spend fifty cents for a few ounces. He could just tap the sharpener from his office over the pan.

They settled at the table. Cecil watched him, swirling his mug and arching his eyebrows suggestively. He waited for Carlos to finish fixing his coffee with multiple spoonfuls of sugar and several seconds of milk, and take a sip. Then Cecil had to wait a moment longer, as Carlos followed up the sip with a longer drink.

"You know how you can tell through all of that is a still mystery to me…" Cecil tilted his mug forward just enough to show off the pristine black liquid inside. "But you're a scientist, and so very perspective, so: how is it today?"

"Excellent. Thanks, Ceec."

Cecil pressed a palm to the side of his face, and hid his flustered smile by finally starting on his own coffee. And then: "Yeah, of course. You're welcome. You? Always welcome. Just, so welcome."

Carlos took another drink of his coffee, and stared into it. He dipped his fingertip in, and frowned. This was liquid. A state of matter. And it was this, made with - love and aggression and enthusiasm - passion was probably a scientifically accurate catch-all, that gave Carlos the context he needed. Drinking this, which had been made by this man in front of him – his husband and closest family - and taking all of these things into him represented a physicality which he could not ignore. 

Maybe it wasn't scientific. It could have been, because he hadn't made any attempts to quantify this specific phenomenon, but he doubted it - it was an instinct he had developed, and sometimes had to actively suppress, after so many years as a scientist. It was about himself, though, so he would try to put this first.

"Ceec…"

"Yes?"

"So, about this morning. The thing, um, that I was thinking about."

"Yes." Cecil straightened in his chair, but left his hand in the center of the table, an invitation.

"I just, you know… I was in the- I was away for-" No. No, it wasn't just that it was unscientific to dance around it. More than that, if he didn't say it, it would be in his head all day. And he had to keep his eyes here, where he was, according to all evidence. "I was in the otherworld for a long time."

"Right…"

"Sometimes, it's just, it's hard to… Leave? I mean, no, that's not right. Looking at the facts, I did leave, but it doesn't always feel that way, and sometimes when I wake up, it's especially… distant. Here is, I mean. I feel distant from this place, where I am." Carlos had not taken Cecil's hand. His chin had settled into his own, instead, his fingers running anxiously through his hair. "I know where I am. It's not even like I forget. But it was so long in a fixed radius." 

It wasn't like he hadn't said this out loud before. But he'd never talked about it, never wanted to, still didn't. So it probably made sense for him to be trembling by the end of it. It was a scientific fact that to talk about something _could_ invite the presence of that thing. This didn't apply to everything. The otherworld was, well, a world, and not a fae creature. It still felt like opening a door, maybe. 

He shook his head helplessly, and Cecil nodded gravely. Carlos felt his skin flushing. He knew that look Cecil was giving him; it was all about Carlos and only about Carlos. That look was a promise: that Cecil would do anything he could to help. He would use all of his influence, if that would help, or offer only his longest silence and his body heat. Anything. 

Carlos still wasn't always sure how to deal with this, because it was just so. So Cecil. And Cecil was so in love with him, and Carlos could believe that, on its own, but not always that he deserved it. And if Carlos said that, on top of all the emotions he had just dumped onto his husband, Cecil would reassure him about that, too, without a second thought. 

So, okay. Maybe Carlos could believe that, too. He tugged his hand free of his hair, and straightened up to take Cecil's hand, finally.

"Of course it upsets me when you're upset. But I'd still rather know. I'd always rather know, about that, anyway. Ignorance is bliss, like, a good ninety percent of the time-"

Carlos perked up, which allowed him to relax. Not much, but enough. "That's not scientifically accurate. It's also very hard to measure, because you'd need to get people to admit to being ignorant! And usually they're just like, 'well, I'm right about that!' and won't admit that they were wrong, you know?"

"Hmm, really? Well, I'll take your word for it, Doctor," said Cecil, simultaneously teasing and proving Carlos' point. "But even so. For you, I'd rather know. If it helps you to think of it this way: I'll feel better if you do, and especially if there's anything I can do to help. And I know there won't always be, but… still. So. Thank you for telling me."

"Oh. Okay," Carlos said, his mouth hanging open for a moment, and then: "But is it really that easy? I can just tell you these things, and you're okay with that?"

Cecil put down his coffee. "I don't… Um. Want to put you in a position that you're uncomfortable with? Or I mean, I try not to, and I don't know if I'm okay with it, but I'd really rather… that you weren't hurting on your own anymore. I mean, I know that you didn't want to hurt me, god, you're just too thoughtful, Carlos, but I mean. I mean." 

Cecil stood up, and dragged his chair around the table so that he could sit next to Carlos. He did not try to make eye contact, instead focusing on their hands. He took Carlos' in both of his own. 

"Listen. Okay? It was hard for you... It was, and I think it still is. I hope it's been better. I hope it will continue to get better. But whatever _it_ is, whatever shape it takes in the future, you don't have to be alone with it again. I understand that a scientist can be self-reliant, but you don't have to be. I think that's what I mean. Does that even make sense, Carlos?"

"Cecil… Oh, Cecil. Okay." Carlos nodded. "It does make sense. Maybe not from the view of mere facts and logic. But there are other perspectives, so. From one of those…"

"Okay. Good. Hey."

"Yes?"

"When do you have to be at the lab this morning?"

"The usual time. Nine AM." Carlos rolled his eyes. "Whatever that means. It might not be for a couple of hours, or I might have to wait for time to move backwards, depending… What time is it now?"

"A little past ten AM."

"Yeah. So, scientifically speaking: who knows?"

"Think we've got time to head to the park? Take a quick walk?"

"You mean, sharing local sensory experiences such as breezes and trees and animals? Absolutely! I would love that! We can feed the ducks. And... Maybe figure out why there are ducks. Ducks aren't native to this region. It's hard for them to survive in the desert, with their lack of fur or feathers or anything that might protect them from the sun." 

"Ooh, really? Neat!" 

Ten minutes later, Cecil followed Carlos out the door, into the fading noise of sunrise and the desert where they lived.  
  



End file.
